


BET

by Offendedfish



Series: DC Reader Inserts by an Offended Fish [15]
Category: DCU (Comics), Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics)
Genre: Bratty Reader, Breeding kink if you squint, Bruce Wayne (mentioned) - Freeform, Clark Kent (mentioned) - Freeform, Daddy Kink, F/M, Overstimulation, Smut, This was written for me but you can read too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:08:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27380209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Offendedfish/pseuds/Offendedfish
Summary: You have tried being civil about it but apparently, there was only one way to settle it. A bet.
Relationships: Slade Wilson/Reader
Series: DC Reader Inserts by an Offended Fish [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1885726
Kudos: 47





	BET

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: Ok so I am still thirsty. Mainly because I am stressed as shit. So I tried writing smut again and uh yeah. Here we are again with this bastard. Thanks to the people on the discord for fueling my thirst. Y’all are assholes. (Kidding, I love you guys.)

“Of course, I can” You huff crossing your arms over your chest, your head cocking to the side, sharp grin cutting across your features. 

Slade looks at you through the thin veil of steam coming from his mug of coffee, the light in his eye flickering with mischief. “Sure, you can, kid.”

You make an affronted rumble. The sheer audacity! “Let’s get this straight. If I can outlast you, you’ll let me be on top. In peace. Yeah?”

“That is if you can last,  **_brat_ ** .” Slade says leaning over the table his smile is sharp and challenging. It riles you up.

No fuckin way you were going to lose. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This?

This was just cruel. 

This had to be some kind of human rights violation.

Ok, you were being dramatic. 

Just a little.

You shudder, your breath caught in your chest, an incomprehensible little noise stumbles out of your lips even as you clamp them shut with your teeth. Your hands clench, long fingernails drag against the shoulders of the man beneath you, reflexive and desperate, but Slade pays him no mind, roughly bucking his hips up once, twice, three times, and then stilling again.

You let out a sob, head dipping forward, breath fanning against the man’s skin.

You’ve been at this for hours. You’re exhausted, thighs shaking on either side of Slade’s lap, the muscles of your stomach cramping, your lips bitten raw from rough kisses and your attempts to preserve your dignity. Your body is covered in a thin film of sweat, your hair plastered to your forehead. Your panting and whimpering is loud in the room, and with Slade’s ear so close to your face he must hear you, and yet the man doesn’t react at all, gaze bored as he watches TV past you.

Blearily you hear the words coming out of the TV. Something about Bruce Wayne getting thrown out of a fucking window or something. You honestly don’t care. You lean down trying to shift your hips, to change the angle, to get friction, to do something but you can’t move. Not when he has a rough hand gripping your hip preventing you from moving. You whine into his ear silently cursing his enhanced strength. 

The thrusts start up again, slow and languid, and you keen as Slade hits your G spot on each one. Heat pools in your gut (again) and you feel yourself getting close (again), but Slade knows, Slade always knows, and he stops, holding you still by the hips to keep you from trying to do it yourself (again).

You sob again, shaking your head. “Please, Daddy, please.”

As immovable as a rock, Slade gives you a brief sideways glance but doesn’t even blink.

You don't know how the man can do this. You’ve been at this for hours, you wrapped around Slade’s cock, being bounced up and down just how Slade likes it. And yet the man appears perfectly put together, no signs of approaching his own end, and it doesn’t make any sense. It’s one thing to be able to go non-stop in the field or in training, but this is very different, and his stamina should not be lasting the way it is. You wonder in frustration if all super soldiers are like this or if it’s just this one asshole. 

Slade’s hands tighten around your hips, and he forces you up and down, slamming you down on his cock over and over again. It punches breathless noises out of you, little “Ah, ah, ah”s that normally would have Slade smirking but still draws no reaction. 

You lean into him wrapping your arms around his neck, your lips brushing up against his ear, your oversensitive nipples brushing against the fabric of his shirt drawing other embarrassing keens and noises from you. You flick your eyes to his face to look for any reaction. 

Nothing. 

Nada. 

Zip. 

You want to scream in frustration but you’re exhausted and your throat still feels too raw. 

You ease into the pace, putting your weight into Slade’s hands to take some of the strain from your thighs, but as soon as you do that Slade changes it up, slowly rolling his hips upward, relaxing his grip enough to force you to hold your own weight. “Fucker,” you bite out. You see the corners of his mouth twitch up for a millisecond but for a moment you think it’s a trick of the light. He runs his calloused fingers lightly up and down your trembling thighs. The pressure they lend makes you bristle at the mesh texture of stockings. 

“Please,” You keen forehead falling against Slade’s shoulder, “please, please, please.” You’re flush with how needy you sound but you couldn’t bring yourself to care enough to stop your entire body is on fire, overstimulated. Every thrust is like a knife inside of you, bringing with it sparks of pleasure, and you can feel each and every callus on Slade’s hands as they drag idly across your hips. The fabric of your remaining clothing too rough against your skin. At this point, you’re not even sure if you care if you get to come, you just want this to be over.

“Slade,” You sob out as the man starts to pick up the pace again. Your grip on his shoulder tightens, nails digging into his flesh. “Slade, please, stop-”

Your voice breaks off into incoherent whimpering as your plea goes unacknowledged, clutching at Slade’s shoulders, just trying to hang on. You press your face in the junction of Slade’s neck, panting heavily, squeezing your eyes shut. Your cheeks feel wet, and you taste salt; how long have you been crying? You honestly don't know and don’t care to investigate. You’ve been here for what feels like an eternity.

One of Slade’s hands trails toward your core. You gasp when you feel his thumb pressing rough circles to your bundle of nerves, hips automatically trying to buck into the touch, but Slade’s other hand effortlessly keeps you in place as he stimulates your core lazily. 

You have officially considered snapping his neck. (Not that it was feasible given how jelly-like your limbs feel.)

You snarl as the pleasure builds again, as you feel your orgasm approaching because you know Slade won’t let it happen, know you’ll be cut off at the last second, and the drag of Slade’s thumb across your clit is honestly bordering on painful.

Soon enough your breath catches, core tightening, and then Slade stops.

You cry, trembling in Slade’s lap, nails digging into the man’s shoulders. You nip at his skin pleadingly. If you’d been looking at the man instead of bending your head into his shoulder, he would’ve seen the first true reaction from Slade after hours of this, his lips curling very briefly up into a pleased smirk.

With a wet pop, you remove your lips from his skin. “Please, Sir,” You beg again like they’re the only words left in your vocabulary. And as far either of you were concerned, it was. Tears are streaming down your cheeks, your entire body throbbing with pain and need. “Please, please, please, please, please, please-”

Slade fucks up into you, hard and fast, keeping you in place by the grip on your hips. Your head lolls back, tongue hanging out of your mouth. You know you’re making noises loud enough for the entire city to hear. You are abso-fucking-lutely aware that you sound needier than you would ever care to admit but a gun to your head wouldn’t have made you able to tell what you’re saying or sounding like.

You think you hear Slade say, “Look at you, princess” but there’s a roaring in your ears that’s making it difficult to discern anything, hanging onto Slade’s shoulders for dear life.

Slade growls, the sound rumbling against your chest reawakening your oversensitive nerves, slamming you down over and over. He leans in, dragging his teeth along your neck and then biting down, sucking a hickey into the skin, then moving his mouth and doing it again and again.

“Please what, princess?” Slade asks you, and You are so utterly relieved (and petty) to hear the slightly breathless quality in his voice, a sign that maybe he’s close, maybe this is almost over.

“Please,” You sob out, trying to organize your words into a smidge of coherence. “Please—end this-”

“Oh?” Slade says conversationally, and suddenly he’s not moving anymore, falling perfectly still again. You squawk weakly in protest. “You want me to stop?” You tremble, desperately shaking your head.

“No, no, no,  _ please _ ,” you whimper. You try to move up and down, trying to get them back to the point where Slade was almost finished, but Slade’s stronger than you on your best day and it is certainly not one of those.

“Poor little princess,” Slade purrs in your ear, his fingers clenching on your hips. He settles back against the couch, gaze drifting past you once more to whatever is playing quietly on the television.

“Let me get you off,” you negotiate desperately. You want this to end. Sweat drips into your eyes, mixing with your tears. Your eyes sting like everything else. Slade cocks an eyebrow, still not looking at you, lips curving in amusement. “L-let me, Slade, please-” He raises a brow at you. “Please, daddy.” You amend, panting. 

“Who am I to say no to a request like that?” Slade chuckles, and releases his grip on your hips, arms going up to rest across the back of the couch. A mix of relief and pure unadulterated annoyance hits you. “Well, go ahead, then.”

Your fingers flex on Slade's shoulders and you slowly, languidly start to push yourself up and down on his cock. Your thighs shake and burn with exertion, your stomach muscles cramping, your arms feeling spindly. But you ignore it all, focusing on fucking yourself on Slade’s cock, making yourself move more quickly. You’re both so close to the end, so close, just a little longer—

Slade slides his gaze to watch you, eye dark with lust as he takes the sight in. You wonder what a picture you must make, sweaty and shaking and almost past the point of coherent thought, and so very wet.

When Slade finally comes with a snarl, buried to the hilt in your pussy, you slump in relief, not having anywhere close to the energy to be thrilled by the feeling of Slade’s cum filling you up. Your head falls against Slade’s neck and you pant, eyes sliding shut.

Slade runs his fingers up and down your spine for a few calm moments before he pulls you off his cock. You mewl at the feeling of the cock dragging out of you and the cum sliding down your thighs, body still oh so very oversensitive.

Slade swipes a finger up your inner thigh causing you to shiver and then lifts his hand to your mouth. You obediently take the digit into your mouth, cleaning the cum off of it, and then shout in surprise when Slade plunges three fingers into your aching core. He fucks you, dragging them in and out quickly, roughly. You come with a whimper, more relief than pleasure. Your vision whites out, ears ringing.

When you come back to yourself, you’ve been lowered to kneel on the ground, your head against Slade’s knee. Slade’s hand is petting your head, fingers stroking through your hair. The hardwood floor feels too cold against your still burning skin but the touch is nice, so you relax into it, ignoring the slick feeling between your legs, drifting peacefully towards sleep.

“You’re not done yet, brat,” Slade murmurs and puts his fingers under your chin to tilt your head up. 

Your stir and blink up at him uncomprehending, unable to speak or ask what he means, but you don’t fight it when Slade guides you towards his cock—pressure from the thumb on your jaw making your mouth drop open—and pulling you in until the head nudges at the back of your raw throat.

Slade keeps his hand on your hair, holding you in place, and, after stroking a finger across your stretched lips, Slade lifts his gaze and goes back to watching TV which was now helpfully informing you that some asshole named Clark Kent has just been thrown out the window. 

You close your eyes, keep your aching jaw slack, and settle in for what’s sure to be another few hours.

_ Damn it.  _

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
